


la pluie et une paire d’amoureux

by camelliatrain



Category: Fire Emblem Series, Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Angst, Fluff, M/M, angst with happy ending, fic takes place post gronder fields, naps, spoilers for Crimson Flower
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-09
Updated: 2019-09-09
Packaged: 2020-10-13 08:08:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,790
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20579237
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/camelliatrain/pseuds/camelliatrain
Summary: caspar loves linhardt, through the darkest of nights and most sorrowful of days. post-gronder field, black eagles route. angst/fluff + spoilers





	la pluie et une paire d’amoureux

**Author's Note:**

> aaaaa i wrote this from like 10pm-12am. dedicated to my main bitch aero youre the most valid linhardt EVER

“It seems like it never stops raining nowadays, hm?” 

Caspar turns to Ferdinand, attention caught by the musings of the sun-haired noble. Ferdinand wears a wistful smile, but it’s tainted by sadness— there’s a certain melancholy behind Ferdinand’s citrus-toned eyes, framed by thick black lashes that close once more, denying Ferdinand the sight before him.

Caspar can’t blame him. The fields before the two were soaked in blood, dirtied by sin, stained by the malevolent affair called conflict— remnants of battle present themselves in blood-splattered swords left astray, having slipped out of the grasps of what are now corpses many hours ago. Eyes, once bright with life and valiant loyalty, are now glassy, focused not on the world before them but the death they have been claimed by. Some are like Ferdinand, with eyes that flutter to a close, never to be opened again. Caspar wonders if Ferdinand wants to open his eyes again, see the ravaged visage before him— Caspar, truthfully, wants to shut his eyes and run from the reality.

But this is war, and Caspar has long since past the point where he could chain himself to denial like a princess in a tower, so far away from the harsh war that consumes Fódlan whole. He suspects Ferdinand feels the same way. Indeed, Ferdinand’s eyes draw open again, curtains to a tragic comedy put on by actors wearing masks. The haughty youth Caspar knew from the Academy days was either long gone, or wearing a mask too.

He knew Linhardt wore one.

_ Linhardt. _ Caspar turned from Ferdinand and stared, unfocused, at the field before them. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he entertained the thought that Linhardt may be among them. He knew it to be false, of course, for he saw the olive-haired mage right after the chaos, in a storm of stress and turmoil that Caspar had never seen him in before. Caspar frowned, and his heart missed a beat— not in the lovesick adoration of his Academy years, no, but in worry, for both himself and the man he’d grown so hopelessly fond of over the last— well, fifteen years or so.

Ferdinand catches Caspar in his lost daze, shooting the other man a concerned look. A frown crosses Ferdinand’s face, already so worn with wasted emotion and grief. His eyes look grim, and it gives Caspar the sense that Ferdinand already knew what was occupying the thoughts of the teal-haired warrior. He didn’t know which one worried him more— that Ferdinand could guess who Caspar was lost in worry for automatically despite the two not even being that close, or that he was so blatant with his emotions.

Linhardt always told Caspar that his face showed every thought the boy had, and he was as easy to read as a book with only pictures. Pictures of a blatantly emotional blue-haired boy.

“Are you okay?” Ferdinand’s soft voice breaks the silence between them, and Caspar’s azure eyes trail to the other man. “If you’re looking for Linhardt… I saw him go that way.” Ferdinand makes a vague motion to their right, which Caspar can only assume is a cue towards the forest. Any normal person would be confused as to why Linhardt would be in a forest.

But Caspar wasn’t a normal person. He was Linhardt’s… well. He didn’t know what words to use. He was just  _Linhardt’s._

Caspar turns to Ferdinand and gives him a nod of gratitude. “Thanks,” he responds, his usually loud voice now quiet and somber. Ferdinand silently wonders if it’ll break at any moment— over five years, Caspar had gotten better at hiding his emotions, but the telltale 'worrying about Linhardt' brow furrow remained constant. He was doing it again, Ferdinand thought to himself. But Caspar is strong, and for now, Ferdinand doesn’t worry. He knows there are people in this army who are far more sensitive to the horrors of war.

Perhaps he’d seek out Bernadetta later in the day.

Caspar’s footsteps make their presence known through the sounds of squelching mud beneath his boots. If he looked down, he’d see the blood mixed in, blending with the rain that hammers down. The sky is grey, and Caspar’s hair is soaked, but he doesn’t care. He wants Linhardt. He knows where he is. 

But Caspar still falters when he reaches the forest’s edge.

An Imperial soldier eyes him with curiosity and masked suspicion. “O-Oh, General Bergliez, is something the—”

Caspar’s usual infectious cheeriness is absent, and he stares at the solder with downcast eyes. The rain runs across the bridge of his nose, droplets splitting in two as they wet his face. The solder gulps— his attitude is off, to say the least. One of the army’s biggest motivators, right beside Byleth, now struck by dark grief and gloom.

Caspar frowns. “I’m fine,” he mutters, raising his voice loud enough for the Imperial soldier to catch his words. “I… I’m looking for Linhardt. Inform Edelgard if you wish— I’ll only be a second.” Swallowing, and not sparing the soldier a second glance, Caspar enters the verdant forest. Droplets of water run across the leaves before diving gracefully to the earthy ground beneath him. Dirt clings to Caspar’s boots as he makes his way through the trees. 

A seed of despair begins to bloom in Caspar’s heart, which seems to be a garden for misery at the current moment. One after another, flowers of mourning, bitterness, anguish,  _pain_ sprout up, and the beauty of the flower fields at the Academy are nowhere to be seen. Instead it is a dark and grim array, a visage only the Reaper could find pleasure in.

The despondent thoughts plaguing Caspar’s brain are put on hold when he notices Linhardt’s shadow, the other man sitting by the mouth of a small lake lifelessly. The other man can be noticed by Caspar with only a hair for identification— over the years, Caspar has gotten to know Linhardt and his body well— in multiple ways, he’ll admit, but that knowledge never ceases being useful when he’s seeking the crest scholar out. 

Linhardt hears him, and turns around slightly. Caspar’s heart drops when he sees Linhardt, soaked to the bone by rain, hair helplessly clinging to his face, eyes obscured by sorrow and a sense of forlorn melancholy. The ornate robes Linhardt always wears, both in battle and while locked up in what remains of the library for hours on end, do nothing to hide Linhardt’s lean frame now, stuck to him with rain like glue. He’s a hopeless sight.

Caspar takes a seat next to Linhardt, whose eyes remain unfocused, staring blankly at the water. Rain hits its surface, and a little ripple appears— on its own a small sight, but when combined with a million others, it seems to drown out Caspar’s inner voice, which in turn is drowning out his usual optimism by way of an endless monologue Caspar can only describe as nonsensical misery.

It takes three seconds before Caspar is wrapping Linhardt in his arms, holding the man close, sharing whatever heat he has left with him. Both of them are dripping, freezing, struck by sorrow— and yet Caspar doesn’t  _care_.  The only thing filling his head is how miserable Linhardt looked, and how hopeless Caspar was, unable to stop him.

In a perfect world, Caspar never has to see Linhardt cry. He never has to see him frown and try to cover up his hurt emotions when another person calls him a useless, ever-sleeping waste of space. He never has to see Linhardt upset, or in mourning, or in that grief-stricken slump he’s caught in now. Oh, in a perfect world, it’s just them, the warm sun, and every thing that makes them happy— from the coffee the Monastery staff used to secretly brew Linhardt alongside the feline treats he’d sneak to the stray cats, to the way Linhardt will always show up later than the time Caspar arranged, but with apple-dusted cheeks and a sleepy smile that Caspar can’t help but adore.

Even amongst the rain, Caspar feels a different type of droplet trickle down from his eye.  _He’s crying now, huh?_ There’s an unusual dampness at the front of his shirt, and Caspar can tell it’s Linhardt crying. His heart softens, and his eyes flutter shut, blocking out the world and everything except the man in his arms, whose body shakes with the sobs filling the air around them. Caspar holds him tighter, and draws Linhardt close, until the man is practically nestled in Caspar’s warm, secure embrace. 

Linhardt is a fraction taller than Caspar, still, but none of that seems to matter as the olive haired scholar clings tightly to the general. Caspar doesn’t speak— he doesn’t  _need_ to — and simply allows Linhardt to release all those wound up emotions, hidden under a sleepy facade of carelessness. It hurts Caspar to hear Linhardt sob so brokenly, but it would only hurt them both more to let the feelings remain unspoken, unheard, unseen.

Finally Linhardt lifts his head, hiccuping breath slowing down from the high of emotions, and his grief-filled evergreen eyes meet the empathetic azure tone of Caspar’s. Caspar’s heart twinges, and he brushes some wet strands of hair away from Linhardt’s forehead, which they cling to stubbornly. 

A soft silence envelops the two. Linhardt breaks it.

“I’m so tired, Caspar,” he mumbles softly, hands absently toying with the soaked sleeves of his robes. “So tired of it all.” Caspar knows he’s not talking about anything in a sleepy sense— although he’s sure that the both of them just wish to rest, and lose themselves in a dream world where conflict is foreign and their bountiful love overpowers all darkness, driving it out to create a sanctuary for the two only.

“I know,” Caspar murmurs, running a hand through Linhardt’s soaking locks with a feather-light touch. Linhardt offers him a sad smile, which Caspar returns. “I am, too. Do you remember Felix? I used to spar with him during our Academy days. He was— he was as prickly as my hair used to be.” The bad joke gets a little chuckle from Linhardt, whose face is graced by an amused smile despite his tear-stained cheeks and eyes which still show memories from his crying earlier. Caspar’s heart skips a little beat, and he feels like a lovesick schoolboy all over again.

He swallows. “I saw him die. That training axe I used to use to parry his sword was replaced with a metal axe that I drove into his chest.” Linhardt’s smile drops, and his eyes go empty with sorrow. Caspar can’t help but feel the same way. “It still haunts me. Every time I see a sword in the grasp of a soldier’s corpse, I think of him. He died like that, too. Holding onto his weapon until his very last breath.”

Linhardt presses his forehead to Caspar’s. One hand, with graceful touches, traces Caspar’s jaw. It’s an act of pure love, and Caspar can’t help but appreciate it. The rain seems to be slowing now, but the pitter-patter ringing faintly in Caspar’s ears indicates that the torrent isn’t over just yet.

“This place used to be so beautiful,” Linhardt mumbles, settling a little more against Caspar’s chest. Caspar thinks, in the back of his mind, that maybe Linhardt doesn’t notice he’s wearing armour still stained with blood. Or maybe he does, and simply doesn’t care. “Don’t you recall, Caspar— when, after Professor Byleth’s boring lectures, we’d hide out here and eat the cakes we’d stolen from the kitchen staff— although some we’d been handed willingly from that one girl who  _insisted_ we were a couple, and some we’d make ourselves— but whenever we snuck into the kitchen to get snacks, you always got most of them, hm? More than me, anyways, I was always far too lazy for it all— and you’d get those lemon slices you knew I liked, and then the strawberry tarts you adored so much, and then you’d steal some sugar to dust on top too, even though I told you there was already enough sugar in them, but you’d eat them later and then complain during dinner about how sick you felt from gorging yourself on pastries all afternoon. And some days— some days we’d watch the sun go down, and then fall asleep in each other’s arms, and when we woke up, we’d return to the common room together only to be yelled at by Hubert for staying out too late and worrying Edelgard?”

Linhardt stops, and draws a sharp breath. Caspar looks down, and sees tears forming in the corners of Linhardt’s beautifully mesmerising evergreen eyes. His heart falters, skips a beat or three, and then Caspar’s pulling him into a kiss all at once,  _and_—

It’s a moment of fragile tranquility as the two fall into one another. Caspar’s lips are chapped, bitten, and rough against Linhardt’s silky, soft, plump lips. Caspar can taste lemons, likely from that balm Linhardt was so fond of using— Caspar bought it for him on his twentieth birthday, offhandedly remarking that he saw the lemon favour and couldn’t help but think of Linhardt. The soft and hopelessly lovestruck look in Linhardt’s eyes had always confused Caspar, until it was Caspar’s birthday and Linhardt casually mentioned how the bluebird brooch he bought looked just like the colour of Caspar’s eyes. Then Caspar understood it all, and realised that every adoring thought passing through his brain about Linhardt— from his morning thoughts of the young man to the last thing passing through his brain in the dead of night— were all reciprocated with just as much love.

Linhardt leaned in a little closer, parting for air only a moment before diving in again, and Caspar indulges him. Oh, that sweet sensation uniting the two is truly matchless, Caspar thinks, as he holds Linhardt close and runs a hand through his hair, the other resting on Linhardt’s hip.

“I love you.” Linhardt’s voice is breathy, lost in euphoria, and his gaze on Caspar is pure, filled with nothing but unfiltered adoration. “I love you so much. I always have. In this war, and before, in the Academy, and probably even in our million other reincarnated in the past, and in the future too— I’ll never _stop_ loving you, Caspar. Never.” There’s raw desperation in Linhardt’s voice, and Caspar’s eyes soften at the unfiltered thoughts Linhardt is so loosely letting free, when he would usually shut them up, or perhaps let them be said beneath ten layers of half-hearted snide comments or half-hearted remarks. Linhardt is pleading, desperate, so hopelessly in love with Caspar.

“Don’t leave me. Please.”

Caspar pulls Linhardt in for another kiss. The two melt into one another, and release. Linhardt’s lips are swollen with love.

With raw vocal cords, and in a voice so soft and tender he’d once thought it impossible to talk in such a tone, Caspar said, “I won’t.” Linhardt’s eyes crinkle with pure happiness, and he lets out a small laugh. It’s soft, like a bell’s chime. Caspar’s heart skips a beat. Caspar tucks another strand of pine-toned locks behind Linhardt’s ear. It’s only when Linhardt looks up and around with curious eyes that Caspar notices the rain is gone, the sun is dancing its soft, warm dance amongst the clouds, and a rainbow lights up the sky. Linhardt is smiling, now, and Caspar can’t help but do so too.

“I believe that is a sign, my love,” Caspar finds himself pushed down to the ground with surprising force from Linhardt. He thinks something else is going to happen, but Linhardt merely joins Caspar on the ground, curling closer to the man and resting his head on one of Caspar’s outstretched arms. “A sign that it is time for a  _nap_ .”

Caspar laughs. Where Linhardt is soft, willowy, graceful, and with a laugh like a fairy’s song, Caspar is warm, physical, passionate, and with a laugh loud and cheerful, but so infectious it makes Linhardt grin too, gazing up at the teal haired man. 

“I guess it is, huh? I’m sure the others can wait.”

Caspar doesn’t even care that the ground beneath them is muddy and dirty, or that they’re both covered in dirt and rusted blood and soaked to the bone by the miserable downpour of rain earlier. It doesn’t matter to him at all. Not when he has Linhardt in his arms. Caspar goes in for another kiss, and holds Linhardt tight. He couldn’t be happier, really.

Despite everything, Caspar insists later, over dinner, that nap was one of the best ones he’s had in years. Linhardt, nap expert extraordinaire, agrees with him.


End file.
